Memory I remember when my sister was born. I have never told her for I never thought to before. I will permit my poem to hold that memory of that morn-, ing, father, who had been at the hospital, hourly, waiting for her birth returned. My sister, brother, and I were on Cartwright mountain to stay the night if necessary, and it was, for mother labored long the way the earth is noncommittal to a seed’s need to burst from the soil, before its season to grow is come. Some six days ago, my sister’s toil got versed as poetry along dementia lines.